Red Umbrella
by laureleaf
Summary: Mycroft always wears a gold ring and carries an umbrella. Here's the reason why.


**A/N: **Just a bit of holiday angst to beat the writer's block. It can be read alone or as an addendum to the "Christmas Angel" chapter of star-eye's "The Godfather" story, which is absolutely phenomenal and only keeps getting better! Warning for FEELS and character death. Dedicated to all those who have lost loved ones over the holidays.

* * *

Mycroft shut the door tiredly, noting the security camera hidden in the festive wreath that his underlings had hung on his door despite his express wishes to the contrary. He waited until he heard the automatic locks engage before crossing the entryway and walking up the stairs, pausing momentarily on the third and sixth steps to engage the 'sleep' mode on security. If he had paused on the second and fifth, it would initiate a total lockdown. His casual glance out the window at the top of the stairs revealed three armed guards patrolling amidst the softly falling snow. He estimated that less than 1% of the population could have spotted the highly-trained professionals. Even fewer people would have noticed that the window that they were glancing out of was bulletproof. Or that there was a hidden camera in the window frame. The footage went to his home computer, only to be used in the event of his assassination. Mycroft sighed. Only fifteen attempts on his life this year. An all-time low.

He carefully opened the door to his bedroom, making sure his thumb aligned with the scanner, turning it in a specific pattern to disengage the locks. Mycroft deflated visibly as he crossed the threshold, allowing his true weariness to show. No cameras here, no underlings to intimidate, no dignitaries to impress. His one sanctuary, his one area of privacy in a world of guards and cameras. Sherlock still hadn't figured out how to hack it, much to his chagrin. His little brother probably expected his room to be full of pastries and cakes and 'boring' law books. His colleagues whispered that it contained anything from the proof of alien existence to 'interesting' pictures of various dignitaries. In reality, the small windowless room was almost as sparse and bland as a hotel. Those felt more like home to him now anyway, after decades of traveling.

Mycroft sat down on the edge of the generic bedspread, chin in hand. He slowly emptied his mind of the two-hundred-and-three things he had been planning and mulling over throughout the day. Carefully, he reviewed what he had done and what yet needed done. Only once his comprehensive to-do list was complete did he allow himself to think about a different Christmas, years and years ago.

It hadn't always been this way.

He hadn't always lived behind layers and layers of walls and protective measures, security details, and logical conclusions; invisible security blankets of his own design.

Back then, his baby brother had just discovered cigarettes. His parents were barely cold in the ground. And his wife…

No, he wasn't thinking about her. Not tonight. Especially not tonight. Resolutely, he prepared for bed, the mundane motions ineffective in keeping the memories at bay. Pulling up the covers, he closed his eyes, trying to will himself unconscious. Almost the entire world at his beck and call, but sleep still eluded him. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his thumb against his ring. His wedding ring. Why did he still wear it, after all these years? When asked, he always claimed that he was married to his work, that it was a convenient method of showing that he was not available for romantic interests. That wasn't why he wore it though. _Sentiment. _

Finally succumbing, he went over to his dresser, opening the bottom drawer, his heart dancing, his mind warning him that it would only cause him pain. The removal of a perfectly folded spare dress shirt revealed a large photo album and a small picture frame. Reverently, Mycroft turned the latter over, revealing a smiling woman. A large red umbrella provided a vibrant background that matched her glossy lipstick and brought out the roses in her cheeks. Oh, she had been beautiful.

Unbidden, a different image sprang to his mind. That same face, sallow and sunken. Those beautiful brown eyes, filled with pain. Those silky curls gone, replaced by a tender baldness that chafed on the hospital pillows. Those delicate hands, limp within his own.

A tear dropped onto the glass.

He knew how to protect her against himself. He had stopped assassins and kidnappers. He had kept her out of national and international intrigues. But he couldn't protect her against herself. He could stop wars and prevent disasters, but he couldn't cure cancer.

More helpless tears followed the first, fast like rain.

She had loved the rain. She had loved to dance in it. She had complained that everyone made the rain seem so depressing, wearing their black coats and black umbrellas, trudging about. It wasn't a funeral, she said. It was a celebration of life. And so she had faced the London weather with a bright red umbrella and a brighter smile.

She had bought him a vibrant blue umbrella for their one-month anniversary. His favorite color. Sherlock had teased him mercilessly. Mycroft had then abruptly (and accidentally) discovered that his new brolly had a balance rather similar to his practice sword. She had laughed and laughed. His lips quirked in a small smile despite his tears at the light-hearted memory.

He'd proposed during a rainstorm, the rivulets of water dripping down her face and mixing with her tears of joy only making her more beautiful. They'd waltzed through the puddles in the abandoned park for hours under her red umbrella.

He'd noticed the first signs a year later. They caught it early. But early wasn't soon enough. A few months, and she was gone. On the very night that celebrated the arrival of the God that hadn't answered his prayers.

It rained for her funeral, despite being the dead of winter. It seemed fitting. He traded his blue umbrella for a black one.

_All lives end._

A week later, he discovered his brother in an alleyway, a hopeless addict. He had been too distraught with watching her slip away to notice Sherlock spiraling into disaster. He had never quite forgiven himself. Sherlock had never quite forgiven him for throwing him into a top-security rehab center (repeatedly).

_All hearts are broken._

He'd left the cozy little apartment near the edge of the city, full of sharp-edged memories and hopes, moving to this bland generic government house in the center of London. He took his bleeding heart and froze it solid to preserve what little remained. It became his unshakeable foundation for efficient indifference and ruthless calculation.

He had never wanted to be the Iceman. But he could not dwell on what might have been.

_Caring is not an advantage. _


End file.
